low soft their voices cameon white wings across the waterreflecting skyreflecting water and we wanted to join themacross that still forever –touch again their shining faces,walk fearless on the reflecting sea.but our earthbound bodiessang kin-songs to the rock spilled shore –took form from the forest that named ustrading our wings for wordsand the knowing and…
in the moth darkof time betweennightjar wheelson silent wingsbefore first lightbreaks the skyand winter treeslike skeleton leavesbare witness tothe rising sun.
they are small streams nowthat cut these deep valleys –rock slip moist mosswhere light can hardly touchbut here shaftbeam drift lightthrough tall trees and airhung with water dropletsand spore,touching bracket or fern leafor foot. small streams nowthat roar with the raintumbling debris,hanging upriver grassin the trees with the floodline. small streams thatspeak gentle overrock shelvesstill…
holy is the touch of rain on morning skinnew woken to the mist hung world holy is the sunbird, iridescent voicein the murmuring trees. holy is the dew hung leafoffering green prayersto the morning. holy is the mudslip wet and dark with life,warm with the season’s turning. holy is the songshared breath on our lipsshaping…
so late my loveand the day still needs doingthough sun has long slipped the horizonand only the night jar still sings, but there are stars nowmy loveaching with light long held –come breathe with methis unravelling sky.
in the quiet lightof mist morningbirdsong falls like rain condensationleaf gatheredand pouredfor the thirsty,the waiting,the listening – birdsong fallinglike rainfrom the trees.
high summer on a damp air on skin morning i had moved an armchair outside the front door to write because the house was sleeping and the light seeping through leaves impeccable. time passed unmoving while skinless in the warmth of the soft mist morning i could no longer feel where my body ended, where…
in these times of rapid change and covid-19, with the youngest doing zoom for school, the lack of daily commute has yielded quiet mornings waking late to winter light softing the forest into focus. this morning came cresting the hill hot pink between black branches – we went to find the sun, my daughter and…
fridays mostly we walk the long stretch of beach along the indian ocean with nothing but sea and all that lives it between us and the cold deep south of antartica. we walk with intention – gleaning the dunes and high tide line of garbage, gathering the bits of plastic that we did not want…
if the river god spoke my name would she speak this light on water, this unquenchable thirst, this longing to be submerged – hair river-weed to the tide, the call of the ocean stretching my lungs, pulsing my ears, calling us home water, sand bone and blood. would she take this laughter that rises silver…